


the bonds are sharp but sweet-smelling

by BeautifulSoup



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Grooming, but angrily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25182535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulSoup/pseuds/BeautifulSoup
Summary: While exploring a fairy road, Childermass stumbles upon a strange castle and finds himself expected.He is prepared for fairy trickery, but not for Henry Lascelles, who has found himself under contract to the lord of the realm.
Relationships: John Childermass & Henry Lascelles
Comments: 15
Kudos: 16





	the bonds are sharp but sweet-smelling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/gifts).



> Written for [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit)'s prompt for the first JSAMN discord ficlet challenge: "Childermass is on a diplomatic mission to a fairy court and is assigned a human slave valet who happens to be Lascelles, maybe Lascelles gets a kind of revenge by forcing Childermass to wash and shampoo and wear nice clothes for the court."
> 
> I didn't _quuiite_ keep to the 5k limit, sorry, but this was a fun step out of my comfort zone! I hope you like it! <3

There was, between Alderbury and Cardeston, a recently opened fairy road.

News of it reached Childermass after a meeting of the Shrewsbury Society of Magicians, where he had been presenting Vinculus. He did not hear of the fairy road during the meeting (that had been too full of arguments and shouting over the markings on Vinculus’ skin and the arrangement of his limbs for that), but afterwards as he shared a late dinner with Mr Ferrington, the president of the Society, who was putting up the two wandering magicians with less reluctance than most others who were put in such a position.

Mr Ferrington was a young man, recently appointed as president, and was opposite to Dr Foxcastle in every way other than his portliness. He was enthusiastic about the practise of magic, and eager to speak of the changes that had come to Shropshire since the previous winter. He had made himself agreeable to the two wanderers by his rare habit of not looking at Vinculus as if he were a horse turd in which a diamond may somewhere be hidden, but as a man.

The road had opened only some weeks previously, the gentleman said, but was remembered by some of the older residents of the area. There was an old woman in the village of Alderbury who, Childermass’ host told him, had been born in the last days of the reign of George I and was a revered ancient figure in the parish. This woman recalled tales her grandmother had told her of a time when the fairy road had been open, and of when it had closed. It had once been well-known as a route between the ports of Liverpool and Bristol, and had even been known to take some travellers to the magical island of Anglesey. But that had been long ago and the road had been largely forgotten.

Of late, however, the local people had been plagued by strange visitors and odd beasts, and after being persuaded by his parishioners, the rector had applied to this ancient lady to ask what she knew. She directed him to a particular lane which was much overgrown, and with some difficulty (many of the trees the lady had given as landmarks had been felled in the intervening century or so, and a number of the walls had tumbled or been raided for their stone) a party of bold men had discovered the fairy road and found it open, a strange sweet smell wafting down towards them. Mr Ferrington had himself been part of this expedition (at this claim his chest puffed out with pride).

While the men had stood debating how to proceed, a strange beast had meandered down the road towards them – much like a cow in all respects, Mr Ferrington explained, but bright pink with silver horns which seemed sharper at each point than a stiletto blade. At the sight of this fearsome beast, some of the braver men (or, thought Childermass privately, some of the farmers, as Mr Ferrington did not this time claim himself among their number) urged the beast back in the direction from whence it came, and when it was out of the way they put their heads together and tried to think of some way to block the road from causing any further nuisance.

Had they come to any conclusion? Childermass asked, and received in answer a frown and a shake of his host’s head.

“No,” said Mr Ferrington. “We discussed the matter for some time, but could not settle on a way forward.”

Childermass smiled to himself, knowing the way of magicians and knowing very well the difficulty of getting them to agree.

He fell silent for some moments, smoking his pipe (for in the time it had taken his host to tell the tale, they had finished their supper and had moved to the drawing room fire) and thinking. He was to stay in Shrewsbury for a week or so – he had agreed to undertake some business on Mrs Strange’s behalf while he was in Shropshire – and would have some time at his disposal.

“I wonder,” he said, tapping the bit of his pipe against his chin. “If you might take me there tomorrow or the day after? I am curious to see this road and what lies beyond it. You need not come with me all the way,” he added, seeing the sudden pallor of Mr Ferrington’s face, “but just guide me to the place and then return here to study Vinculus at your leisure.” The gentleman still looked unsure. “I am endeavouring to make a study of the reopened fairy roads in England, perhaps to produce a map to warn travellers of their locations.”

“Oh!” cried Mr Ferrington, reassured. “Of course!”

The next morning they rode out. It was a gentle ride out from the town, and as they drew closer Childermass could feel the change in the air: the earthy scent of English magic mixing with something deeper and sharper. He could have found his way to the entrance of the fairy road just by following his nose, but he let Ferrington guide him to the place.

The entrance itself was unremarkable: a gap in a hawthorn hedge perhaps 4 feet wide, the divots-and-hump remains of a cart track still just visible beneath, but beyond the hedge the sky seemed to have a different character than the one currently over England. Above them the sky was mostly grey – an unthreatening, flat kind of grey, the sun showing as a bright disc behind the thin cloud. Beyond the hedge it seemed to be either the twilight or dawn of a clear summer’s day, dim and pink with shadows pacing the ground.

“I am sorry I cannot come with you, Mr Childermass,” said Ferrington as his horse started to shift unhappily, its hooves never settling on the ground, tossing its head gently. “But as I said, I do have business to attend to in the town.”

“It is no trouble, Mr Ferrington,” Childermass answered, smiling from atop Brewer’s still back. “Do not worry about me, see to your business. You have brought me here, I can find my own way back.”

With a final goodbye, Ferrington trotted off back to the main road to Shrewsbury, horse and man equally glad to be moving away from the uncanny road. Childermass laughed a little to himself and patted Brewer’s neck, thinking that he had finally found the limit of his host’s enthusiasm, and rode forward into Faerie.

Before they had set out that morning, Childermass had made sure to wrap red ribbon around his wrist and tie it securely, and as they travelled through Faerie he went through his usual precautions against illusions and enchantments.

He began to believe he might reach Liverpool before coming across anything noteworthy, but just as he wondered if he would be better turning back and setting an anti-extrusion barrier at the Alderbury end of the road, there was a castle.

The castle was in plain view, and should have been visible for some miles before Childermass noticed it, but it had come upon him so suddenly it was as if he had been wandering an art gallery and been confronted with it, having turned a slight corner. He glanced back the way he had come and saw the road behind him as straight as he had thought it.

He checked his wrist and saw the scarlet ribbon still tightly wound there, and carried on. The castle was unusual, not of the normal Faerie construction (which is to say: a hillock). It was more in keeping with the style of castle he had seen in the north of France: it made use of great turrets and high walls to striking effect, and seemed in strangely good repair. It was not crumbling and battle-scarred like many Faerie fortresses, and the walls and turrets had none of the stout, defensive feel of many English castles.

Most strange of all was the band of creatures waiting outside the wall with instruments and banners, who, upon seeing him approach, started cheering and playing their pipes and waving their banners. It was tempting to test his anti-illusion spells once more, but one blast of the pipes (some players sharp, others flat) was enough to tell him that whoever lived here was not trying to seduce him with sweet music. He only slowed Brewer’s pace a little as he drew nearer, to allow more time to survey the scene.

“Ah,” said a particularly tall and handsome fairy, stepping forward from the group. “You’re here at last.” Despite being about six feet in height, the fairy somehow managed to look down their nose at Childermass, even atop Brewer as he was. “We have been waiting, oh,” they glanced at a contraption on their wrist, “five hundred years at least. Follow me.”

The little band kept playing even as the tall fairy swept through them. From the back of the group a small, unmistakably human person came forward nervously.

“I’ll take your horse, sir, if you please,” he said. His clothes were the rough sort of working men, but in good repair and clean enough, and he took his cap off when he spoke to Childermass. His accent was the rounded, flat kind rooted in the south west of England.

“How did you come to this place?” Childermass asked once he had dismounted, handing Brewer’s reins to the young man. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, I got lost on the way to Tetbury, about two weeks ago,” he said, stroking Brewer’s nose. “The master here was kind enough to take me in when some of his people found me hungry. Said he needed someone good with horses for an important visitor they was expecting, and he’d keep me in food and lodging until then.”

Childermass enquired about the date the man had arrived, and was given an answer which was more or less two weeks before. Childermass was not sure whether this was reassuring or not. The man lead Brewer away, and Childermass quietly slipped his small hag-stone from his pocket and surveyed man and scene through the hole. The man looked as clean and proper as at first glance, and the castle walls remained bright and upright.

“Do come along!” The imperious voice rang through the courtyard, and Childermass turned to see the tall fairy sneering at him. “We cannot let you see the king looking like… _that_.” They spun on their heel and marched into the castle, and Childermass, cautious not to cause any offence, followed.

Inside, there were no enchantments he could detect, no illusions or any of the usual fairy trickery around, and that was more disconcerting than the alternative. Magic he could deal with, magic he could counter and think his way around. This transparency was more confusing to him than illusion.

He was marched through endless corridors. They were not like the corridors of Starecross Hall, which twisted and turned as if to their own whims, but were straight and true and seemed always to turn at right angles. He kept tally of the route, of the steps and the turns and the landmarks they passed in the shape of statues and decorative urns and paintings. One of these went some way to explaining the familiarity of the castle’s exterior: it was a large etching of Château de Chambord, of which the castle was an exact replica. It did not, however, explain _why_ a fairy had built a replica of a French château. More puzzled than ever, he followed on.

“Your rooms,” the fairy said, gesturing to a large, ornate door. “A fresh set of…” here they paused and gave Childermass a withering up-and-down look, “ _…clothes_ has been put out for you, and a bath is ready. Your valet will attend to any needs.” They looked back at their strange bracelet and sighed, running a fingernail through one extravagant eyebrow. “And do be as quick as you can. The audience will begin in an hour.”

With one last disgusted look (Childermass was used to such looks and didn’t pay it much heed) the fairy once more turned on a heel and strode off down the corridor, their long silk coat shining in the pink sunlight spilling in through the large windows.

He pressed his palm to the door – it felt as solid as anything, and the texture of it matched what his eyes saw – and pushed it open.

Behind that door lay the most surprising thing so far.

For, standing in a bored attitude and regarding his nails with a cool disinterest, was Henry Lascelles.

In the months following the disappearance of Mr Norrell and Mr Strange, Childermass had asked his cards on several occasions about the fate of Lascelles, who seemed to have simply vanished. Childermass had spoken to the Hurtfew servants in depth about what had happened that night and had learnt that the man was not trapped with the two magicians, but the cards had kept throwing him the Eight of Swords, which made Childermass think Lascelles trapped somewhere, but he had been unable to discover where. Almost a year and a half had passed since then, and Childermass had long since stopped asking. There were more important things to think of, and he had spent too many years thinking about Lascelles and his manoeuvrings.

He stepped cautiously forward, but the possibility of Lascelles being held under some kind of stupefying enchantment was at once dismissed when the man glanced up at Childermass. Immediately, his bored face transformed into a mask of disgust and hatred as he snarled, “ _You!_ ”

At this reassuring reaction, Childermass straightened and smiled. “Mr Lascelles,” he said, while quietly checking his own sense with moon, bees, salt, and iron, securing his heart in his safe, secret place. Nothing about the room or Lascelles changed. There was no illusion at play here, no attempt to confuse his senses. “This is unexpected.”

There was something oddly comforting about the familiarity of Lascelles’ sneer, and Childermass relaxed a fraction. He moved from his spot by the door and took a turn around the room, investigating the surroundings. There was a large, steaming bath by the fireplace, and spread across a sopha was an outfit of the fashionable kind: buckskin breeches and a deep blue jacket with fine brass buttons laid out with fresh linen. Beside the sopha, Lascelles’ fists were white and shaking.

In any other situation it would have been a sight to make him laugh and gloat, but this was Faerie, and there were dangers here disguised as sweetness and revenge. Despite himself, despite his well-founded wariness of Faerie and its magic and rules, Childermass felt, stirring within him, the seething accumulation of thousands upon thousands of looks and comments and sneers, insults and denigrations. He felt the white-hot pain of a blade in his face and the crush of betrayal.

He looked to Lascelles now and saw fury there, and he smiled to see it.

“They told me I was to have a valet,” Childermass said, drawing the words out, and Lascelles flushed in anger.

“No,” said Lascelles. “No, I refuse.” He tore his glare from Childermass and turned on the spot, looking around the room and speaking as if to some unseen observer. “Not this man!”

In the next moment the tall fairy entered the room and walked up to Lascelles. They stood face-to-face, and behind the anger in Lascelles’ eyes and his poker-straight spine, Childermass thought he saw something else, something that made him think of the smell of piss.

“Your position here carries responsibilities, Christian,” the fairy said, very slowly and very quietly. “There are standards that must be maintained in this household.”

The fairy stepped behind Lascelles and took hold of his shoulders, turning him to face Childermass. Their long, sharp nails pressed clearly into the fabric of Lascelles’ jacket and Childermass could almost feel the ghost of them in his own flesh.

The fairy continued lowly, their mouth beside Lascelles’ ear. “ _This man_ , as you term him, is an important ambassador. This is a house of diplomacy, and neither the master nor the King of Not-To-Be will be happy to see him in this… state,” they spared Lascelles a moment’s disdain to throw some upon Childermass. The fairy sniffed deeply at Lascelles hair and smiled minutely. “Nor shall he be harmed.”

“I understand what is asked of me,” Lascelles forced out from between gritted teeth. “But this man is no ambassador, he is no more than the shi-”

“Your previous mistress,” the fairy interrupted, nails pressing even more deeply into his shoulders, “would be happy to take you back to her service if you find this position unsatisfactory.” The fairy’s tone remained bored and impatient, but Childermass saw the colour drain from Lascelles’ face at the words, and the fairy’s mouth stretched into an impossibly wide smile revealing inhumanly sharp teeth.

Lascelles stood in the fairy’s grasp for some moments. His face was deathly pale, but his eyes were hot with hatred as they trailed up and down Childermass’ body. His fists clenched and unclenched over and over at his sides. He let out a long, hissing breath and the fairy’s grip on his shoulders relaxed.

“Wonderful.” The creature stepped away. “We expect him ready by Saiph-set,” they said, and slipped gracefully from the room, shutting the door behind them.

In a decade spent in the close company of Lascelles, Childermass had seen in him in every possible mood, or so he had thought, but not even in the Hurtfew library with the imminent threat of invasion by a mad magician had he seen such plain terror etched there. It remained only an instant, quickly schooled into a sneer as the fairy left the room. The pallor remained.

Childermass drew his eyes away, turned to remove his hat, gloves, and greatcoat, hanging them on the curling hat-stand in the corner. He could see no reason to refuse the fairy’s instructions, and knew better than to appear ungrateful for Faerie hospitality. He had, however, never been one for following directions to the letter.

“Thank you for your attention, Mr Lascelles,” he said, hanging his jacket over the back of a chair and moving to the washbasin at the dressing table. “But I think I am capable of looking after myself. Your services will not be required.”

He remembered the last time Lascelles had got within arm’s reach of him, still had the scar as a memento. As much as this reversal of station tickled that part of him that had borne the constant onslaught of insult and slander from the man before him, he was not particularly keen to give him a second opportunity.

Lascelles did not answer, but strode over to a sopha by the window and flopped down onto it, crossing his legs and looking out the window in an apparent effort to ignore Childermass’ presence as so often before. The sky still shone pink, and Childermass began to think that the twilight here was perpetual.

Childermass busied himself with the wash basin, scrubbing his face briskly with the sweet-scented soap and running his damp hands through his hair to tidy his queue.

He looked down at his own clothes – freshly on that morning, and although he had ridden in them the journey had barely been nine miles – and judged himself presentable. He had spoken with ministers and dukes looking much more worse-for-wear, and didn’t see much reason to go beyond for a meeting he hadn’t had warning of.

“Do you know where it is I’m to go?” He asked Lascelles, reaching for the doorknob.

Lascelles turned towards him, looking about to perish from boredom, and in a moment his face was transformed into a mask of fury.

“You think _that_ will do?” He hissed, and Childermass was taken aback by the venom in his voice. He had never heard it so strong, not even with a blade in his face and “ _whoreson”_ biting in his ear.

“I am clean. I am tidy. What more do you wish?” He spread his arms to his sides, his mouth twitching into a smile as he saw Lascelles’ anger bubble up.

Then Lascelles was on his feet, striding across the room. Childermass had just enough warning that when Lascelles’ fist closed around the knot in his cravat, he was able to get his hands in the man’s lapels.

“He expects you _spotless_ ,” Lascelles spat, tugging now at the knot itself and not, as Childermass had expected, using it to throttle him. “He expects you _smelling of roses_ with your hair _brushed_ for once in your damned life. He does not expect to be presented with your usual slovenliness. I always knew you to be a man without class, but to be without _respect-_ ”

“Get your hands _off of me_ ,” Childermass growled, shoving so forcefully that Lascelles stumbled and had to catch himself on the arm of the sopha. “I will not powder and preen myself for any man.” He glanced beside Lascelles where the new clothes were laid out and sneered.

“He is not _any man_ ,” Lascelles said, and although his voice was bitter there was something else there, too, the same thing that flashed in his wide eyes as he pulled himself to his feet. “He is the Devil.”

Childermass snorted a laugh. “And here I presumed you thought yourself the Devil,” he said, but there was something disconcerting about seeing such a reaction in Lascelles of all men.

“You have no idea what he is capable of – how he can talk men into giving what he wants of them, what he will do if you are not presented as he sees fit. Not just to me, but to everyone here.” Lascelles had regained a little of his poise now he had regained his feet. Childermass thought of the young man who had taken Brewer, the nervous clutching and rubbing together of his hands after only two weeks in this place.

“Tell me what he expects of me, then, and I will do it.” Childermass said levelly, and Lascelles threw his hands in the air and lunged for him again.

“There is no time for that!” He cried, and pulled again at Childermass’ cravat. Childermass caught his wrists, held them firmly and prised his hands away.

“I can undress myself, I think,” he said carefully. “You clearly have some idea of what needs done, why don’t you prepare?”

Lascelles scowled at him for a moment, a reassuringly familiar expression, and turned to examine the row of bottles and jars lined up beside the bathtub. However reassuring the expression, it was undone by the acquiescence of the man. Childermass kept one eye on him as he stripped himself down to his shirt sleeves, laying his waistcoat and cravat on the same chair he had placed his jacket.

“Off with that too,” Lascelles demanded, not even glancing over his shoulder. “All of it. Then get in there.”

“I would never have thought you so keen,” Childermass grunted, but pulled his shirt over his head all the same. Lascelles turned to him to glare, but Childermass did not miss the flicker of his eyes. Those eyes stayed on him as he removed his stockings and breeches, cold and assessing, and followed him into the bath.

Nudity was not something that Childermass had ever been embarrassed by. He set no pride in the beauty of his body, but was not ashamed of it. He knew he was unremarkable to look at and did not mind, knowing those who saw his body and touched it seemed pleased enough with what he did with it.

The unease he felt as he lowered himself into the water was not shame. It was, he told himself, perfectly natural to be wary of such a man as Lascelles, in such a situation as this, being looked at in such a way.

“Oh,” said Lascelles, and it came out almost as a growl. “How long have I wanted to-”

Childermass did not hear the rest of this, as his head was pushed roughly under the water so he had only a second to take a lungful of air. He reached out over the side of the bath to beat at Lascelles’ chest and arms, reached up to where Lascelles’ hands gripped tightly in his hair, but it was only a moment before he was released. He surged up from under the water, gasping for air, but Lascelles kept a tight hold on the back of his neck, his sharp, neat nails digging into Childermass’ flesh.

“If you worry that I might kill you,” Lascelles said, his voice dripping poison, “put your mind at ease.” His nails tightened, and Childermass gripped the sides of the bathtub, bracing himself for another immersion. “You have no idea the pleasure it would give me, but I have a certain contract with the master of this house.” He felt Lascelles shift behind him, although the hand remained clamped on his neck, and a moment later something thick and cool landed on his scalp. “But this… Oh how I have wanted to… this _disgusting_ mop…”

Lascelles released his neck, and two hands were at Childermass’ scalp, rubbing in the soap until the suds slid down his face. It was not gentle – bony fingers and sharp nails jabbed into his skull and tugged at his hair – and Childermass kept himself braced against the edges of the tub, not daring to let go to wipe the stinging soap from his eyes. Lascelles did not submerge him this time, only tipped a pitcher of water over his head to rinse him. Childermass risked bringing his hands away to wipe his face, and turned to glare at him.

“I don’t know what kind of reference you expect-” Childermass began, but had to hold his breath as he was doused with another pitcher. More sweet-smelling stuff was poured onto his head and those sharp, strong fingers were once more at his scalp.

Lascelles was muttering under his breath, words that Childermass could not quite make out but heard the vicious tone of well enough. He punctuated his monologue by pressing his fingers harder into Childermass’ scalp. Once – and Childermass was glad it was only once – those fingers pressed firmly at the base of his skull, into the tense muscles of his neck, and he felt his leg twitch like a dog being scratched behind the ear, but he managed to disguise the reaction as an escape attempt.

“Hold still!” Lascelles gritted out, yanking back on Childermass’ wet hair, and his fingers were replaced by the sharp teeth of a comb, digging and scratching and tugging through the knots of Childermass’ hair with no concession to gentleness. Childermass bit at his cheek and did not wince. He put up with this for some moments before the pitcher came once, twice, three times more.

“That is _enough_ ,” Childermass grunted, pushing his sopping hair out of his face and standing from the tub, water cascading everywhere. He wrung the water from his hair and smirked a little to see Lascelles sputtering as his breeches and jacket were soaked. Tempting as it was to shake himself dry like a dog and no doubt live up to all of Lascelles’ opinions of him, he reached for a towel to dry himself and stepped from the tub.

“For the love of god!” Lascelles cried, leaping to his feet. “We do not have time for this!” He yanked the towel from Childermass’ grip and in the same moment threw a handful of powder at him.

Childermass stumbled back coughing, his arm across his face. When the air had cleared he realised he was bone-dry; even his hair fell softly around his shoulders without a hint of dampness.

“Get dressed,” Lascelles ordered, pointing to the fine clothes laid out so carefully on the sopha.

Lascelles was, thankfully, happy enough to let him dress himself for the most part, although he watched Childermass with a sharp, critical eye all the while. When Childermass had clad himself in the fine white shirt, white silk stockings, and cream buckskin breeches, Lascelles set himself to fussing with the neckcloth.

It was white as fresh snow and well-starched, and Lascelles bent himself with furious concentration to the tying of it. He wrapped it around and around Childermass’ neck, his smile sharp as he pulled it too tightly. Childermass reined himself in, refusing to rise to the bait, and put up with the discomfort as Lascelles tied the cravat in a needlessly complex knot. It was uncomfortably tight but not impossibly so, and Childermass was used to discomfort. What was more distracting was the feel of Lascelles’ breath, hot against his face, and the sight of his pursed lips, a patch red and bloodied from being chewed on. This close, the shadows beneath his eyes were impossible to ignore.

Next came the waistcoat. This was of a pale, shining, embroidered silk almost the colour of champagne, and Lascelles was very particular about the fit of it on Childermass’ shoulders (although, like the breeches, it fit perfectly, as if tailored for him), and spent some time tugging at the shirt until it sat under the waistcoat to his satisfaction. There was a strange gleam in Lascelles’ eyes now, not the anger at being forced to play the servant to a man he had so long viewed as inferior, but a certain sharp enjoyment. Childermass did not want to dwell too long on such an expression; it brought too readily to mind the glint of steel in candlelight.

As Lascelles stood back to inspect his work, Childermass moved to his own shirt where it lay across the chair and spent a moment rummaging before coming back with his red ribbon. He wound this once more around his left wrist, over the shirt where it would be easily visible if he moved the sleeve of his jacket.

“What,” Lascelles snapped, lunging for the ribbon, “are you _doing_?”

Stepping neatly aside and catching Lascelles by the lapel with his other arm, Childermass laughed, a harsh sound that surprised him.

“You will take this from me only when I no longer breathe,” he gritted out. “Tell me, Mr Lascelles, you spent a decade in a magician’s library, editing his papers: did you hear a thing that was said, read a word upon a page? Or were you too caught up in ignoring anything that he disapproved of to think for yourself?” He pushed Lascelles away again and secured the ribbon.

Lascelles eyed it with a strange expression, somehow at once petulant and hollow. He seemed to realise that on this Childermass would not be moved, and changed his approach.

“Sit down,” Lascelles ordered, pointing towards the chair by the dressing table. Childermass did, and seeing the instruments laid out on the table reached for the hairbrush, but found his hand slapped away as Lascelles reached for it. “I have never once seen you with properly dressed hair,” he sneered. “Do you think I would trust you with it _now_?”

The tug of the brush through his hair jerked Childermass’ head back, and in the mirror he saw the petty revenges playing out in Lascelles’ mind: responses to the pert replies, the insolent looks, the times Childermass had stood a little too close a little too long, his head tilted in a way precisely calculated to infuriate. Infuriating, yes, but never enough to warrant any punishment, never enough for Norrell to pick up on to take one side over another. Childermass’ hands twitched in his lap as Lascelles pulled viciously at a knot, flinching not from the pain at his scalp but from memory.

When his hair was smooth enough that no amount of viciousness could snatch at his scalp or make him grit his teeth, Lascelles brushed it back from his face, pulled it away and smoothed it back with hands and brush, gathering it at the base of his skull. Where the brush couldn’t tangle he tugged with his fingers, winding in the dark strands as he pulled them together and tied with a ribbon as deep blue and shining as the coat that lay on the sopha.

The light in the room changed, tilted from pink to something more golden, and Lascelles’ eyes widened from their furious slits to look out the window beyond the mirror.

Childermass made the most of the distraction, getting to his feet and striding to the sopha to slip the jacket over his arms to cover the red ribbon cross-gartered around his left wrist. The fabric was fine, and he let his hands linger over it, taking his time adjusting the high velvet collar of a slightly darker blue than the rest.

John Childermass had never suffered from vanity (he had never had the beauty or the interest in fashion that make a man vain), but he knew fine things when he saw them. He fastened the shining buttons, bright in the golden light of the room, and turned to Lascelles, who stood rooted to the spot, face twisted as if it physically pained him to see someone as low as Childermass in such finery.

“Well, Mr Lascelles,” Childermass said, in his mind once more checking with moon, bees, iron, and salt and once more finding nothing revealed. “Will I do?”

Lascelles looked keenly, eyes as penetrating as they always were, as ready to tear into any imperfection in dress or word or attitude as they had been in the library in Hanover-square. Behind that sharpness, however, Childermass saw an absence, something sunken and hollow like an abscess drained.

Before Childermass could dwell too long on that emptiness, the door opened and the tall fairy entered once more. The creature appraised him and seemed to find him to their liking. He glanced back at Lascelles as he was swept from the room, and far too late started to wonder what he had been brought here to discuss.

**Author's Note:**

> a little edit/addition: Childermass' snazzy outfit is heavily inspired by/stolen from [this wonderful piece of fanart](https://simplymessingaboutinboats.tumblr.com/post/181381861129/here-is-my-piece-for-jsamnfanart-exchange-my) which you should definitely go stare at for a few hours.


End file.
